by Mark Braun
Pipe down folks:
There’s a legend at the mike.
He may not be the type you like;
but in his day, long before you began,
the world was breathlessly in love with the man.
by Hilary Barta
Out in center he proved to be handy
Once, hell-bent, made a shoe-string, a dandy
A bad call, threw a fit
(With the ball still in mitt)
What a gent through and through was our Andy.
At this time of year, there’s no spookier fright than checking out Hilary’s monster-movie limerick site, LimerWrecks.
by Hilary Barta
What a year, there’s a lot to forget
Wipe it clear, like you’d blot a bad debt
No more seasons of pain
No reprise! No refrain!
Drink your beer — down a shot, better yet.
Hilary Barta, famed comic illustrator (The Simpsons, SpongeBob), runs the pop culture limerick site LimerWrecks, to which you should direct your browser now.
By Stuart Shea
How bad were the White Sox?
Three games worse than the Cubs.
Who played like shubdubs,
Like Triple-A subs,
Who made each day a gallery of flubs,
Those ridiculous bubs,
Who gave their fans the nubs,
Who drove those fans to local pubs,
To drown their sorrows in bad beer from huge tubs
And eat greasy deep-fried grub
That hardens their arteries like cigarette stubs
And makes them all fat.
The Sox were worse than that.
by Yvonne Zipter
The briefest love is sometimes sweetest,
and so my ardor for the nap.
But the litany of each
that’s ever cupped me in its lotus palm
would put you in a stupor,
and so I will not mention
the most pitiful of naps—
that of the invalid,
who lies swathed in a blanket on the couch
while the world slips past in flickering frames—
or poorer yet, the dirt nap, the specter of which hunkers
at the end of the sofa,
tactlessly licking a mossy lip.
Better to tell of the “power nap,”
all the fashion a decade past:
bears do it, blokes do it,
even preppy Greenwich teens do it
(let’s do it—let’s fall asleep).
Of course, last century we were all
hungry for power: military, electric, personal.
New to my list
is to doze upon the maple floorboards,
the narrow face of one dog
on my thigh, the head of the other
on my arm as they bathe me
in a kind of elixir
of kibble-scented breath
and the musk of waxy ears.
But easily the pleasantest of naps
is that on a Sunday afternoon—
in the summer, if at all possible—the fragrance
of new-mown lawn filtering through an open window,
a fat fly tapping at the screen,
and Pat Hughes, Voice of the Chicago Cubs,
intoning the stats like a chant,
which sets you adrift, for a moment,
like a pharaoh in a boat,
paddling toward heaven
with all the things you love.